Harder than Diamond
by Aerys Eli
Summary: Hermione Granger is seldom wrong. She knows things will get worse, but she gets more than she ever bargained for. Continuing immediately after HBP. Rated T for unpleasant situations. Possible future SSHG
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: No, just in case you were wondering, I don't own any part of the Harry Potter universe. This includes, but is not limited to the characters, places, and various magical inventions. The only thing original in this story is the plot line. Or at least most of it, since parts were stolen from the original books.**

**_Harder than Diamond_**

**_Prologue_**

Hermione tightened her hold on Ron's hand. It wasn't that she didn't trust him, but he had an annoying habit of staring openmouthed and (in several cases) even wandering after some of the wedding guests. Hermione, on the other hand, had never been to a wedding like this and it sparked her curiosity. Still refusing to let go of him, she dragged Ron across the yard to examine the buffet table.

She grimaced at Ron's stream of complaints and finally handed him to Harry. "Don't let him follow Fleur's cousin around. She's more Veela than Fleur is," she ordered, before turning back to the food.

Quite frankly, Hermione was surprised Fleur had gotten some of this past Mrs. Weasley. At least three of the drink selections contained aphrodisiacs and she knew for a fact that the strawberry tarts contained love potion. The distinctive smell gave them away.

She glanced across the yard to the gondola where Bill and Fleur were sitting, feeding each other cake and looking positively adorable. They were the picture of the perfect loving couple, even with Bill's face marred by deep furrowed scars. Fleur didn't seem to notice or care and, true to her word, she looked beautiful enough for both of them. She was in an elaborate, but very revealing white gown that Hermione was deeply jealous of. Her hair was down, flowing over her bare shoulders and shimmering when she laughed.

Hermione smiled. Harry had said on the way over that it was remarkable that something so beautiful could happen in the midst of despair and Hermione was inclined to agree with him. _Dumbledore._ _Sirius._ Her smile disappeared and she sighed. Their absence seemed to permeate the entire event. Admittedly, everyone had done a good job of not mentioning it, but she had caught both Harry and Professor McGonagall—who was delighted to come to the previous Head Boy's wedding—with tears in their eyes that had nothing to do with the ceremony.

Ron had squeezed her hand when she felt tears slide down her own face and she knew he felt the loss too. Professor Snape. Her brain raged every time she thought of him. He was the one. The one she had defended every year at school. Whom Dumbledore had trusted and given a second chance. How _could_ he? She gave the thought a hard mental shove and tried to bring herself back to the present.

Everyone was dancing now. Fleur had her head on Bill's shoulder as they revolved slowly in spot. Bill had his eyes closed tight, as though trying to shut out everything but this moment. Hermione was amused to see that it was Harry, not Ron, who had fallen into the clutches of Fleur's cousin. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should do something but decided that Harry could defend himself. And if not, she was sure he'd survive a good nibbling.

_Speaking of Harry-nibbling…_ she glanced around and saw Ginny standing at the other end of the buffet, picking out the biggest brownie and intently not-looking at Harry. She'd told Hermione of Harry's decision regarding the two of them on the train home. While it saddened Hermione, she couldn't help but understand Harry's point of view.

She had been worried about Ginny's reaction, but, to her surprise, Ginny hadn't seemed very upset. _"Oh, I understand why he did it. Don't worry 'Mione, I can take care of myself. Besides, once this is all over, we'll be together again."_ But despite her sunny smile, Hermione suspected there was more to it than that.

So lost in her thoughts was she that she didn't notice someone coming up behind her until she felt a sharp tap on her shoulder. She turned inquisitively to find Ron, looking sheepish, but far more comfortable than he ever had been, even a month ago. "Would you like to dance, oh Hermione mine?" he said, with an elaborate mock-bow.

She curtsied, spreading the full skirt of her dress. "You are too kind." Hermione smiled coquettishly for a moment before breaking into a huge grin. "C'mon." She snatched his hand and pulled him onto the dance floor. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight to his chest.

It was strange, she thought, that dancing should feel so different with different partners. She felt close to Ron in a way she had never felt with Victor. He was her best friend after all, and what were relationships, if not friendship?

Ron revolved her in a circle, just as she'd seen Bill with Fleur earlier. As always, a torrent of thoughts and ideas flooded into her brain, only this time, they weren't the uses of mandrake or the many derivations of wolfsbane. Instead…

_Is this it? Is this what Bill and Fleur feel when they hold each other close? He feels so warm; I can feel him through my dress. It is only made of silk after all. I can smell him. He smells like new parchment and freshly mown grass. He smells comfortable. And he's my best friend. I care about him more than anyone else. I care about him more than Harry. _she admitted to herself. _I mean, Harry can take care of himself, but Ron has a really fragile side and I would protect him until the end of the earth. Yes, _she decided, _this must be love. I'm in love with Ron._

And with that last decisive thought, she closed her eyes and decided firmly to stop worrying.

.o.

Later that night, when the stars were well into the sky, Hermione opened her eyes. She blinked sleepily at the unfamiliar, yet strangely comfortable settings and started up, disoriented. Realizing sheepishly that she was still in the Burrow, she settled back onto the couch with a quiet sigh. Most of the guests were gone by now and the house was almost empty. Or at least, as empty as the Burrow ever was. She heard a soft snore behind her and smiled fondly over at Ron, who lay curled up in the corner of the cushions.

She should go. Through the window she could see Mr. and Mrs. Weasley sitting in the back, talking quietly to one another. Ginny was up in her room, undoubtedly preparing for bed. Bill and Fleur had left hours ago for their honeymoon. Bill had used his Gringotts connections to get them a beautiful suite in Italy. Harry was nowhere to be seen. Hermione had a sudden mental image of Harry snogging Fleur's cousin and had an immediate, desperate urge to poke her eyes out with a fork.

Hermione stood and stretched. She'd never been an easy sleeper and, as comfortable as the Weasley's couch was, her back didn't thank her for it. Catching sight of herself in the mirror across the room she let out a quiet sigh of exasperation. Her hair, secure as it had been in its complicated up-do, had been mussed by the couch and hair dangled in little tendrils all around her face. Her pretty blue gown was rumpled too. Oh well. She was going home anyway. It just seemed unfair that so much work could be messed up so quickly.

Planting a quick kiss on Ron's forehead—at which he stirred sleepily but did not wake—she ducked outside to say goodnight to the Weasleys.

"Going so soon, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked, frowning slightly.

"Soon, come now Molly, she's practically the only guest left." Chided Mr. Weasley.

Hermione grinned. "Oh, I'd love to stay, but my parents are expecting me soon. In fact, they probably expected me some time ago."

Molly smiled back. "I understand. I'd be worried too. Do you need Arthur to go with you? The streets aren't terribly safe these days…"

"That's all right. I have my Apparating License. I'm just going straight home." She hugged Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who kissed her on both cheeks. "Thank you very much for inviting me."

"Not at all my dear, not at all." Mr. Weasley smiled fondly at her.

Hermione picked her way back through the house. A random assortment of objects littered the floor, everything from footstools to wedding presents. She narrowly missed stubbing her toe badly on an antique baby carriage brought by Ron's eccentric old aunt.

Safely through the house, she walked briskly out to the street, and concentrated hard on the front walk of her parent's house.

Loath as she was to admit it to herself, she was still surprised every time it actually worked. She had always prided herself on her ability to perform complex magical procedures, but the idea that you could actually _teleport_ yourself from one place to another just by thinking about it had always seemed far-fetched. But once again, she'd done it. Her parent's house stood in front of her, cozy and secure. Only the living room light was on. Hermione smiled. Her Dad always stayed up for her whenever she went out.

She looked up at the sky. Stars glittered in the blackness as she savored the moment. Things were going to get very bad very soon and she wanted to remember a moment of complete peace.

And of course, since she was Hermione Granger, outstanding student, and new Head Girl, she was seldom wrong. Even now.

She wasn't aware anyone was behind her until she felt the bag go over her head. The stars and the sunny light of the living room disappeared and all she could see was darkness. She kicked out, feeling her foot connect hard with something fleshy and heard someone grunt with pain. A voice snapped "Stupify!" And then she couldn't even feel the bag.

**A/N: First off, I'd like to say that I never beg for reviews. In this case however, I'd really appreciate it if any of you could drop me a line of commentary/criticism/whatever. This is going to be very different than any of my other work and I'm a bit nervous how its going to come out. I will be updating this regularly (I swear! It will not be abandoned like some of my other pieces. I like this one too much). And it may get SH later.**


	2. Chapter One

**Disclaimer: No, just in case you were wondering, I don't own any part of the Harry Potter universe. This includes, but is not limited to the characters, places, and various magical inventions. The only thing original in this story is the plot line. Or at least most of it, since parts were stolen from the original books.**

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**_Chapter One_**

**_Mind over Matter _**

The first thing Hermione noticed as she slowly awoke was the cold. From what she could tell, she was lying down on a rough stone floor. Cold rose up through the flagstone and permeated through her thin dress into her body. She shuddered. Coarse-woven cloth still covered her face and left her with only a vague sense of light somewhere beyond it.

She stirred and something clanked.

"She's awake" a deep voice grunted, excitedly. Someone kicked her hard in the stomach and she gasped, doubling over with pain. The bag was ripped from her face and she could suddenly see three pairs of boots, all sideways. A pale blue light was coming from somewhere.

In a last ditch attempt to keep some dignity, Hermione struggled to her knees, wrists bound by heavy shackles.

"Oh, those won't be necessary" a soft voice said. She looked up to see a man standing over her, watching her with deep, mirthless eyes. His tousled brown hair was soft and seemed out of place against his abnormally strong chin. He smiled coldly and quietly muttered a spell. Her shackles melted away, leaving only raw skin to show they'd been there at all.

Hermione trembled. She didn't like to show fear before these strange people, but under the circumstances she excused herself. Funny how, even at a time like this, logic ruled her brain.

She glanced around the room and saw two other men. They were colossally huge and could only be the older Crabbe and Goyle. The sons were the exact images of their fathers. When her eyes alighted on him, Goyle grinned nastily and cracked his knuckles.

Turning back to the central man, she tried to look casual and unconcerned. "Where am I?" It didn't come out quite as she'd intended it to and her voice broke in the middle.

"Why, you're a guest of my lord. Surely you've heard of him? After all, he knows you well, as do several of his followers." he said, confirming her suspicions. She wasn't really surprised. Who else would kidnap her off her doorstep?

"Well you can tell _your lord_" she twisted the words, mockingly "that unless he wishes me to improvise a lesson on origami, he should tell me what I'm doing here." There. That sounded better. It sounded more like something Harry would say.

The man's smile broadened, though his eyes didn't change. "Oh, you may not know, but my lord has informed me as to your purpose here. 'Easily the most vulnerable' he told us, 'The Weasley boy has too much family and you are to leave Potter to me'. So here you are, _my lady_. You are our esteemed guest and we are to do with you what we will until the gathering this eve." He spoke in an oddly archaic way.

Hermione swallowed. "And what do you will?" she whispered. Everything about this man disturbed her. Crabbe and Goyle, she could deal with, but this man… he was something else entirely.

"I believe that shall depend on whether you're a good little girl and behave yourself." He slipped his wand from his sleeve. His eyes glinted in the strange cold light. "Of course, I'm sure my lord would not object to a little softening before the gathering, now would he?" The question was answered only by a snigger from Crabbe. The man sighed inaudibly and rolled his eyes at the sound. Crabbe and Goyle, intent on watching the fun, didn't notice.

Hermione shuddered and clenched her fingers impulsively. Without her wand she felt very naked. Looking up, he found herself staring fixedly into the man's cold eyes, unable to look away. With a start, she saw that his pupils were nothing more than slits like a cat's.

He casually pointed his wand at her. He looked smug, as if he'd just cornered a mouse, which, in a way, he had. "Deprimere" he said coolly.

The world stopped, at least for Hermione. She wasn't aware of anything anymore, not the room or the people. Nothing but the pain. Once, in curiosity, she'd tried a couple of curses on her and they'd hurt a bit, but nothing like this. It was like she was deep under water. The very air was crushing her. She gasped and for a moment, the pressure eased, but it returned almost immediately. She would implode. Her body would be crushed into a neat little particle, as though she were garbage in a trash compactor.

And everything eased again. She wheezed, trying to force air back into her crushed lungs. Pain flared in her chest and she clutched at her heart. Was she dying?

"Don't be foolish, child. You are not dying. What you feel is merely psychological—your brain projecting what it thinks you should feel. Do get back up. You're much more entertaining when you're trying to be defiant." She opened her eyes and found herself staring once more into those pitiless brown eyes. She had fallen to the floor during the spell. Crawling back to her knees, she knelt before him, unsure what would happen next.

The man suddenly laughed, a strange, cold sound. "How shameful of me. I haven't introduced myself. My name is Kane Rinehart, though you don't need to bother with my last name. And I shall call you Hermione, yes? I find familiarities make for a much more pleasant atmosphere, don't you, my dear?

"Oh, don't worry" he said, seeing tension written across her face. "I'm done with you for now. I simply wanted to try that new curse and, from the looks of things, it worked perfectly. No, I think I shall take my departure."

Hermione released her breath in a gush, unaware she had been holding it. Her relief must have been evident, as the man smiled again. "I will be back this evening to take you to the gathering. Crabbe, Goyle…" he addressed each man in turn. "Please be sure you don't do any permanent damage." Hermione shrank back in dread. "If possible, please hold yourselves back until she's unconscious. Once she is, there will be the least resistance and quite probably the least damage to her. If, however," his voice sharpened, "one of you is carried away and something happens, come get me. I will not be angry, but my lord will be most displeased if his new guest is killed before he has a chance to speak to her.

Without looking at her, Kane swept from the cell, boots thudding on the stone. The door slammed shut behind him

Crabbe and Goyle looked at each other, smiling stupidly, and lurched towards Hermione. She screamed and threw herself into the corner of the cell, as far from them as she could get. Goyle grabbed her and slammed her against the wall, sending jolts of pain through her. He shoved his face against hers, grinding their lips together. She shrieked against his mouth. Crabbe hit Goyle hard on the shoulder and shook his head.

"You heard Kane." He grunted.

Goyle grimaced. "It's more fun when they're awake" he said, but obligingly slammed his fist into her head.

The world went black once more.

.o.

The phone rang. Of course, it didn't ring normally. Instead, it beeped like an alarm clock does at an inconvenient time in the morning. One would normally punch the alarm clock, but this was a phone. One didn't do such things to a phone.

"Arthur!" Mrs. Weasley's shrill voice echoed through the house. "Your ridiculous phone-thing is beeping!"

Mr. Weasley tumbled down the stairs in great excitement. This was only the second telephone call he'd ever received. "Ringing, Molly, ringing. Telly-phones don't beep."

"Well this one does. Answer it before I jinx the bloody thing off the hook." Mrs. Weasley hmphed and continued dusting the mantle. She swept the tip of her wand across the surface and the dust flew off the end, only to settle back again the moment she finished.

Fumbling with it slightly, Mr. Weasley finally got the earpiece off the hook. "Hello!" he said, louder than he'd meant to. It was just that he got so terribly excited.

"Um, yes, hello" the voice on the other end said hesitantly. "Is this Mr. Weasley?"

"Yes it is. I told you to call me Arthur. And you should call more often, Emily." It was Mrs. Granger, Hermione's mother. She'd never called the Burrow before.

Emily Granger cleared her throat awkwardly. "Yes, well, I was wondering if you could send Hermione home now, please? We have some things we'd like to discuss with her."

This threw Mr. Weasley off his guard. "Hermione? But Hermione went home last night." He turned to Mrs. Weasley. "When did Hermione go home last night, Molly?"

Mrs. Weasley tsked at her husband's absentmindedness. "Around a quarter past eleven."

"She left a little after eleven." Mr. Weasley repeated into the phone.

Mrs. Granger was silent for a moment. When she spoke, her voice sounded tense. "Arthur, she never came home last night. Do you know anywhere else she might have gone?"

"No, I don't think so. No. She said she was going to Apparate straight home. Oh no…"

"What?" She sounded increasingly anxious.

"Nothing, its just that, well, the Death Eaters have been getting more adventurous, and, well, best not to jump to conclusions!" His speech flocculated from tentative to anxious to falsely cheerful. Like her daughter, Mrs. Granger was not an idiot.

"What do we do? I mean, who do we contact? I would have thought Dumbledore… but… who do we talk to? Can we contact your government? Our government? Oh Hermione. I'm so worried. I don't know the full extent of what's happening in your world, but… could you help? I'm sorry to beg but.."

Mr. Weasley cut her off. "Of course we'll help. She's like a daughter to us. You just stay safe and wait by the telly-phone. We'll contact you as soon as we have anything to tell you. Don't worry. It'll be all right." Despite his comforting words, his face was grave as he hung up the telephone.

He turned to his wife, who had stopped her dusting and was looking at him worriedly. The line between his brows furrowed. "Molly," he said, heavily, "we have a very big problem."

.o.

Hermione awoke once more in the frigid cell. She was sprawled awkwardly on the floor and when she moved to sit up, pain lanced through every part of her body. She winced. Every part of her body felt bruised and battered. Even—she shuddered—parts inside of her. Horrible as it was, a part of her was grateful she'd been knocked out and hadn't had to experience first hand what her mind suggested had happened.

A soft voice spoke. "Come now, my dear. It is time for the gathering." She looked up. Kane was standing over her, dressed in long black robes that swept behind him on the floor. His eyes were still and level as he gazed at her. He offered her a pale hand, which she took, bewildered. Pulling her to her feet, his eyes swept her up and down.

He tutted. "Oh, this won't do at all." He pointed his wand at her and slowly, most of her bruises and cuts shrank from view. She could still feel them, and a few were still showing.

She looked at him quizzically. He laughed. "It's only for show, my dear. We don't want you to look _too _battered, now do we?" Glancing her up and down again, he nodded slowly in satisfaction. The way he looked at her made her feel naked.

Speaking of naked, she felt a rift between her fingers and glanced down. Her once full blue skirt had a long tear from the hem all the way up to the hip and one of the straps was missing from her gown. Ah, irony. She'd always hated stories in which the heroines ended up in littler and littler clothing, but just now she found she couldn't fault them at all. _You can't always choose when you're naked_, she thought, oddly philosophical.

"Come now" Kane repeated, pulling her with him and he opened the door, Crabbe and Goyle nowhere to be seen. "It wouldn't do to be late for your appointment."

He led her down the cold stone hall. It was indistinguishable from the room she'd been in, apart from its length. Blue light still glowed eerily from nowhere. As her body followed Kane blindly through a maze of passages that all looked the same, her mind went to work deciphering the puzzle of the light.

_Some kind of spell in the walls perhaps? Or maybe they've found a way to make the air itself glow? Fascinating. Hogwarts had nothing like this. I wonder… perhaps it's the stone itself that's glowing. Magical rocks that…_ her thoughts continued, taking per attention away from her bruised and bleeding limbs and any acknowledgement of what had just happened to her in that terrible cell. Hermione had always found comfort in her mind. She would escape to the library during trouble at Hogwarts and read until she thought her eyes would fall out of her head. If she could just hang onto this feeling of invulnerability, then she could survive anything. She would be true and brave and strong like Harry. _Yes_, she decided, gritting her teeth. _I will be like Harry._

Finally they reached a large door unlike any of the other hundreds they had passed. Hermione stared at it in a daze. It was iron and wrought with intricate designs of dark runes and symbols. _How cliché_. She thought and laughed internally. Kane swung the door open and guided her into a vast, shadowy room beyond.

A few torches lit the room, giving the place an eerie, flickering light very unlike the steady blue in the outside corridor. A large raised dais sat at one end of the room, housing a ridiculously oversized throne made of stone. A man sat there, his face pale against the darkness of the chair and his robes. In a circle around the entire room, there stood men and women alike, all dressed in robes similar to those Kane himself was wearing.

Kane briskly directed her across the chamber until they stood in front of the dais.

He threw her to her knees in front of Voldemort as he sat on his throne, looking down at her with disdain. She grunted upon impact, unable to stop the sound from leaving her lips. One of the still remaining cuts on her knee broke open and began to bleed again. Hermione glared up malevolently at Voldemort and he quirked a smile. Or as much of a smile as he could possibly be capable of. His face seemed more inhumane than she remembered, or perhaps it was merely the close proximity to him that made him that much more disturbing.

His slit-like nostrils flared and she wondered if he could smell her blood. _My filthy, Mud-blood._ She thought with only a touch of bitter amusement.

"It may interest you, Miss Granger, to know that blood smells specific to the person, not simply due to wizarding heritage" he hissed softly.

She almost started, but hadn't forgotten Voldemort's skill at Legilimency. He could read her thoughts or even project images and thoughts into her mind. She twisted her lips in a futile gesture of defiance. "I'm not afraid of you."

"Then you are a very stupid girl." His voice didn't change. "You have no real comprehension of what I could do to you, do you?"

It wasn't really a question, but she answered anyway. "Of course I do. You could have me raped, tortured, cursed, and killed. But I'm still not afraid of you."

"If you repeat yourself, I am allowed to do the same. You are a very foolish little girl." He smiled as she winced at the condescension. "You may know how to rattle off a list, but do you know what it would be to experience those things? Do you know how a rape can tear you apart from the inside out? You will have wounds in places you did not know you had until they are ripped and bleeding. Of course, Kane informed me that you have already had a taste. Shall we try it again, this time with you awake? I could deny you a wand and healing and give you to my Death Eaters. They always enjoy a bit of fresh meat, don't you all?" A wave of laughter and catcalls rose from those around the man on the dais. Hermione winced, feeling the sound reverberate through the raw places inside her.

Voldemort continued. "Not only that, but I could give you to… let's see… who would little Miss Granger hate the most? Not the oafs. Someone she knows. Ah." His eyes alighted on one of the men behind her. She strained to turn her head far enough to see him. But she didn't have to. Voldemort beckoned and she recognized the sound of his shuffling walk. It was… "Wormtail." Voldemort hissed. "You know our guest, do you not?"

"Y-yes my lord. She…I…well…" Wormtail stuttered, unsure how to respond. Hermione shuddered. She didn't know if she was providing the images or if it was some sick trick of Voldemort's legilimency, but she could see herself now in her mind's eye, under Imperius. Her dream self grabbed Wormtail and pulled him to her, pressing against him, only cloth a barrier. He shoved his tongue into her mouth and ran his fleshy hands down her back, grasping at her butt.

The Dark Lord looked down at Hermione. "Would you like that? You could be a little present. A gift to Wormtail from me. His service recently has been rather better than usual. And he wouldn't mind your dirty blood. You should be grateful if I do choose to give you to him. At least he won't try to burn out your Muggle heritage. As I recall, that is one of McNair's favorite tricks, is it not?" McNair inclined his head in amused agreement.

She held her breath. What would he do? Dream-Hermione screamed as McNair held his wand to her and her veins burned. Wormtail shoved her dream-self onto a bed and climbed on top of her. She nearly retched, unable to avoid the scenes playing inside her head.

"Severus." The Dark Lord beckoned and one of the Death Eaters stepped forward obediently. Hermione saw the sallow skin and black hair out of the corner of her eye and shook. Her dream self was draping herself over Snape and nibbling at his earlobe. The spelled dream-Hermione bent before him, running her hands down his chest to the zipper at his pants…

"Severus," Voldemort repeated, "What do you know of this girl? She was one of your students, was she not?"

She didn't look at him, the filthy murdering traitor. It was only a pity that with her hands shackled there was no way to block her ears.

"Yes my lord, she was. She was an excellent student, though headstrong and egotistical, particularly in matters of intellect. She had great potential, but was foolishly put in Gryffindor and quickly joined Potter's stupidity. I cannot recount the number of times she followed him. Indeed, if your lordship will permit me, I must say that this girl is responsible for much of Potter's supposed brilliance." Snape's voice was soft and insidious.

Hermione growled deep in her throat. "Harry beat you because he's stronger and…" Kale hit her warningly in the back of the head and she fell silent.

Snape snorted. "Harry reached the Stone because you helped him through the tasks. He defeated the basilisk because you identified it for him and gave him the route to the Chamber. He even saved Black because of your Time-Turner." She could feel the satisfaction emanating from him in waves. He wasn't addressing the Dark Lord anymore, speaking solely to her. "When, Miss Granger, did Harry ever once figure things out for himself?"

She turned her head to glare malevolently, not willing to risk being rendered unconscious simply for a momentary release of anger.

"As I see it, Hermione," Voldemort's usage of her first name startled her and she glanced up into his eyes again. "I can see little use for simply torturing you physically. With an intellect as great as yours is supposed to be you could simply find a way to take your mind away. However, if you were, shall we say, merely a gift for one to use in any way he will, well, I'll leave that to your imagination, if it is up to the task." His eyes glittered in the torchlight.

"My lord?" Wormtail asked, his eyes fixed on Hermione.

Voldemort was silent, apparently considering the best option for her torment. He closed his eyes and steepled his long fingers together. After a few second's pause he opened his eyes again. He smiled and hissed one word.

"Snape."

He was as surprised as Hermione was. He stared at Lord Voldemort in shock and confusion. "My lord, I am honored, but would not this girl be more appropriate for Wormtail or Avery? I am but a potions brewer and have no time for… feminine pleasures." He spat out the last two words, as though they were distasteful.

The smile remained on Voldemort's face. "Of course Severus, but you have been working so hard lately and your most recent action is to be commended and rewarded. And, if I remember correctly, you asked me the other day to provide you with an assistant. By your own admission she is intelligent and shows great promise. Thus, I give her to you with one condition."

"My lord?"

"That you bring her to me once she has been broken. Make her work, make her serve you. Break her. Then bring her to me. I want to see this one and know that I, not Potter, truly own her."

Snape's lips thinned, but he bowed deeply. "Of course, my lord."

Voldemort waved a hand. "You are dismissed. Your presence here isn't required for the rest of the matters."

Snape nodded and beckoned to Hermione. "Come." She scrambled to her feet and stumbled over to him, clumsy in her pain, but desperate to get away from the fearful gathering. He held out a hand and she took it without thinking.

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**A/N: I got this chapter up sooner than I thought I would, but I'm not really sure how it worked. I did warn you that there would be some nastiness--thus the 'M' rating--but I tried to keep it to a minimum. If you have a problem with the content, feel free to voice it, but I personally think that if the Harry Potter series wasn't meant for children, it would be a lot nastier. They are the bad guys, after all.  
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	3. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer: No, just in case you were wondering, I don't own any part of the Harry Potter universe. This includes, but is not limited to the characters, places, and various magical inventions. The only thing original in this story is the plot line. Or at least most of it, since some flashbacks and stuff were stolen from the original books.**

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_**Chapter Two**_

_**Menial Misery **_

Hermione sat in the small, rather drab kitchen, her hair hanging wet down her back. As much as she hated being in his debt, she was forced to count the permission to shower a very great favor. The robes he had given her were not made to fit her. Indeed, they were Snape's robes, charmed smaller so that they would not drag on the floor. He had done it without looking at her—without even a cursory glance—and they hung more than two inches above the floor. They were thick, which was nice in the current chill. She'd never thought herself overly sensitive to cold, yet now every slight draft caught her attention as if it was a glacier.

She tried to sit up straight in the worn wooden chair, fighting off the exhaustion that kept threatening to claim her. Snape wasn't in the room. She thought she could hear him moving in the sitting room, but she wasn't sure.

Sure or not however, Snape swept into the room, looking annoyed and pitiless. He looked down his nose at her in a very familiar way. "I suggest you get some sleep, Miss Granger" his voice twisted her name. "If you are to be of any use at all, you need to have at least some sleep."

Glaring up at him, she stifled a yawn. Not entirely successfully. Curse him for being right. "Go to bed. Directly down the hall, second door on your left. I _shall _of course lock it behind you," he said, guessing Hermione's immediate, hopeful thought. "I am not a moron. And, I feel it is my duty to tell you, you will not recognize the surroundings if should you manage to leave. There is nowhere for you to go and there is an Apparating Ban on this entire area. No one comes or goes without the Dark Lord's permission." He pointed one finger down the hall imperiously. "Go."

Hermione went. Halfway down the hall, she glanced back. Snape was bent over the sink, his head drooping. Sighing, she opened the door to the room Snape had indicated.

As she entered, a light clicked on automatically, filling the room with soft, warm light. It was rather Spartan, holding only a simple bed, an empty desk, and, to Hermione's surprise and delight, a bookshelf crammed from end to end with volumes. _Good to know that, in a time of crisis, you can count on Hermione to… be excited by a Death Eater's bookshelf _she thought sardonically. The room had a musty smell to it, as though the room had not been used in a long time. The only window was hidden by heavy velvet curtains that blocked any light there might have been.

Slowly she crossed the room, looking around. With an unconscious sigh, she sank down on the simple green coverlet. The bed was surprisingly soft and the second she put her head down, she sank into a sweet, simple sleep. And this time there were no fists or wands involved.

.o.

"'lo Mum." Ron yawned as he wandered into the kitchen, still in his rumpled clothes from the night before. "Sorry to sleep so late—I was more tired than I thought." He crossed to the countertop and poured himself a cup of the tea waiting there. "By the say, what time did Hermione leave last night? It must have been…" He turned to the table.

Mrs. Weasley sat, her head in her hands, looking preoccupied and apprehensive. A cup of tea sat unnoticed by her elbow.

"Mum?" Ron asked, suddenly concerned. He rushed to her side and put a hand on her back, consolingly. "Mum, what is it?"

Mrs. Weasley sniffled, and Ron could see tears in her eyes. "Oh Ron, I'm so sorry…"

"What? What happened? Is Harry…"

"No…" her voice broke. "Its Hermione…"

"What!"

"She, she never got home last night. She said she was Apparating straight home and… and… her parents called this morning." Mrs. Weasley was crying openly now. Ron stared at her, openmouthed. "Arthur… Dad's been trying to contact Moody all day, but he's apparently on some big mission with the Ministry. He's trying for Lupin now. I meant to wake you and Ginny, but… I…" She dropped her head to the table and kept crying, quietly.

Ron reeled back in shock. "Where's," he gulped "Where's Harry?"

Mrs. Weasley didn't respond, she just cried harder.

Turning, Ron launched himself up the stairs, nearly running Ginny over. She was much further into her waking-up stage than he was, in that she was actually wearing clothes that constituted an outfit. He grabbed at her and she stared at him, slightly shocked. She hadn't seen him this crazed in, well, ever.

"Ron, what is it?" She asked as Ron gasped for air and tried to regain control of his voice box. "Ron, take a deep breath…" he did so, albeit shakily "Now tell me what's going on."

He told her in a rush and her eyes got wider and wider as he went on. He finished with a quick "GinnycanyougofindHarrywhileIgetdressed?"

She didn't even poke fun at him for the slur. "Of course." she said, matter-of-factly "Now go get dressed. I'll find Harry and we'll meet you downstairs. Even," she muttered, turning away from Ron, "if I have to drag Fleur's cousin off him myself."

.o.

The lights clicked back on, shocking Hermione out of sleep. She stretched tiredly and looked around, disoriented by the strange room she was in. Then she saw Snape in the doorway and froze, all of the memories of the… night? day?... before returning in a rush.

He glared at her as if it was her decision to camp at his house. "Get up. We have work to do." Hermione stared at him and he rolled his eyes slightly. "And do something about that ridiculous hair of yours. How do you work with it always in your way?" With that last comment, he turned and swept imperiously out of the room.

She groaned and rolled up into a sitting position. _Why does he do that? Why can't he just exit a room like an ordinary person?_ Then she realized what she was doing. Death Eaters had kidnapped her and she was lazing about in Dumbledore's Murderer's guest bedroom, wondering why he likes to sweep about in long robes! Shaking her head vigorously to rid her mind of nonsense, she tied her hair back in a rough kind of bun with a bit of cord from the desk. The movement of her arms triggered her wounds to flare painfully and she had to bite back a yelp.

Snape stuck his head back in the door. "Are you coming?"

"Yes." She snapped, glaring at him again. He withdrew his head and she followed him down the hallway and through another door. The sight she beheld took her breath away.

Hermione knew how much of a geek she was. She'd never had any illusions. She was an intellect; its what she was good at and she couldn't get rid of it any more than she could have made herself stop breathing. So she embraced it. The room held the most amazing range of magical instruments for potion making she had ever seen. It far outstripped anything Hogwarts had and even the back room at the potion supply store in Diagon Alley—she'd snuck back there for a look—had nothing like this. It was remarkable. Shelves lined the room, covered in jars and bottles with neatly written labels. Two long tables held everything from cauldrons to beakers to scattered books and notes. It even had a large sink in the corner.

He noticed she was staring. "I know it isn't anything fancy, but it serves my purposes and should be quite good enough for you, Miss Granger."

"Oh no…" she breathed, forgetting who she was talking to, "it's incredible…" Abruptly returning to Earth, she blushed and glanced at Snape, embarrassed. He had the most peculiar look on his face. He looked, well, he looked absurdly pleased at her complement. Or, at least he did for a split second, before recomposing his face into a sneer again.

On second thought, who knows what she thought she saw. _I certainly don't. _she reflected, gravely.

"Well," Snape said, "If you're done fawning over the sub-par laboratory, I have some menial tasks I'm sure even you can't ruin." He beckoned her over to a cauldron of dark blue liquid, bubbling sleepily. "I need you to watch this. When the potion turns indigo, add the hellebore. It needs to be stirred constantly. I leave that in your… capable hands." He finished, sounding somewhat doubtful.

"I certainly hope I can manage to stir a potion. After all, I was under your tutelage for five years." She sniped back, irritated.

He looked at her calculatingly. "I would hope so, Miss Granger. The Dark Lord has informed me that if you are any trouble at all, I am to return you to him. He is certain he can find other suitable lodgings for you." Snape raised one eyebrow suggestively.

Hermione stared at him for a moment, completely horrified and turned obediently to the potion, her head bowed and as submissive as she could be. She may be a "courageous" Gryffindor, but she wasn't stupid and she had no desire to see what her fate would be with the other Death Eaters.

They worked in silence for some time. Snape would give her orders whenever she needed them and several times he actually had to correct her. Not knowing what potions she was actually working on made her work considerably more difficult, as she couldn't analyze them herself, but she had a feeling Snape was under orders to keep her in the dark. Even he would be able to see that an assistant would be far more use if they knew the material they were working on. At one point she, bored with the simple stirring she was forced to do for yet another potion, turned partially to watch him as he worked with his back to her.

He moved quickly, sure of his movements. A thick, old-looking book sat on the table in front of him, open to a page covered with scribbled notes that it soon became obvious were from Snape himself. As she watched, he crossed out several lines in the book with a worn old quill and scrawled something in the margin. She heard a faint noise and realized he was muttering to himself. Careful to keep stirring the potion, she leaned forward and strained her ears.

"…three catspaws? Why would anyone in their right mind add three catspaws? That would make it far too potent. No amount of antidote would ever work on that—it would probably just blow up in the brewer's face anyway. No, what they should have said was two catspaws blooms and a stem from one of the plants. Yes, that would make it potent, but not uncontrollable. If I just…"

His voice faded out of earshot again as he strode quickly across the room to get one of the many labeled jars on the shelves that lined the room. Hermione smiled without realizing it and turned back to her potion, which was now bubbling merrily.

She had lost any sense she had had of time. Her work was boring and menial, but she took joy in watching Snape whenever she thought she could get away with it. He was, she decided suddenly, a genius. Of course she had seen what the "Half-Blood Prince" could do with Harry in Potions. Okay, yes she had been jealous of Harry's sudden miraculous "ability", but even with her resentment, she could admit the brilliance of the book. But watching Snape work like this, changing things on a whim, was incredible to watch. He was like an artist who knew every stroke of his painting and what he had to change.

Eventually, after several hours and oh-so-many potions, Snape turned to her. Expecting more instructions, she stood ready. Instead…

"I expect you must be quite hungry by now. My apologies. I often lose track of time while I work."

Hermione blinked. She started to shake her head, but her stomach growled loudly. Snape raised an eyebrow again, this time in incredulity, and she blushed.

"Come on, I'll fix you some food." Once again, he swept from the room and she followed. _He must really love that shtick, _she thought, _That's probably why he made my robes so much shorter. So I can't steal his majesty or something._ She laughed softly.

He pointed to the same chair she had sat in the night before. She sat, obediently, as he bustled around the kitchen. Hermione noted amusedly that he had several of the same mannerisms when he cooked as Mrs. Weasley. The thought sparked a sudden wave of homesickness and she looked down, her eyes filling with tears. She suddenly realized that she had not cried since arriving and decided stubbornly that since she had lasted this long, she could last a little longer. She pinched herself to draw her attention away from thoughts of Ron, Harry, and her parents, and looked back up.

.o.

"Well where _could_ they be?" Harry demanded, slamming his fist on the table.

Lupin sighed. He looked tired, standing in the Wealsey's kitchen. The lines between his eyes and on his forehead seemed more pronounced and Tonks was watching him worriedly. He looked at Harry across the table. "That's what I'm trying to tell you Harry. We don't know where they could be keeping her. We don't have the slightest clue where Voldemort's headquarters are, or even where to start. I told you. I'm trying to track Greyback through the other werewolves, and the Aurors are taking the human route, but we don't know when we're going to find anything."

Ron, who had been standing back, looking vaguely ill, abruptly looked up. "That isn't good enough." He said, quietly, but clear enough that the whole room heard him.

"I'm sorry Ron, but that's all I can tell you…"

Ron cut Lupin off. "What are they doing to her?"

Tonks cut in before Lupin could reply. "Oh Ron, we have no way of knowing for sure. We don't even know if they have her for sure…"

"Of course they have her," Harry snapped. "Where else would Hermione go and not contact us? And what Ron means, and I want to know too, is what _could_ they be doing to her." His voice was carefully neutral.

Tonks, Lupin, and Mr. Wealsey exchanged a look. "Harry, Ron…."

"What?" asked Ron, in the same quiet voice. "Whenever someone says 'Harry, Ron…' in that voice, its always bad news. What is it you don't want us to know?"

Tonks echoed Lupin's sigh. "The Death Eaters, well, they're the _bad_ guys."

"Just tell us," Ron said. "If Hermione were here, she'd be the one to tell us, since she's probably read it in some book somewhere. But now she's the one its being done to, and I want you to tell us."

Her voice was soft and almost timid. Mr. Weasley moved to stop her, but she said, "They could do almost anything. Torture, rape, murder… It all depends which of them has her. And since she's a friend of yours, Harry, I… we… don't really know what kind of attention she could be getting."

The room was silent. Harry looked furious. He gritted his teeth and looked as though he wanted to hit something very hard. Ron just looked dead, staring at the floor, unseeingly.

Ginny, previously unnoticed, moved away from the wall, drawing attention. "What can we do?"

Mr. Weasley looked at her kindly. "Ginny, dear, I really don't think…"

"She's like a sister to me, Dad. I'm in sixth year now. By this time, Harry and Ron have fought innumerable battles and beat villains and obstacles of every sort. With Hermione by their side. Please don't tell me not to do everything I can to help her. I don't want to go behind your back, but I will if you make me. I'll do this. With or without your permission." She gazed levelly at her father, every inch the determined young lady. Ginny had spent so long unnoticed, but now her growth was glaringly obvious.

Arthur sighed and nodded.

Lupin glanced at Tonks. "Ginny, I admire your determination, but, not doubting your abilities, there is little for you to do. Harry and Ron too, I'm afraid. The best thing you can do is to save your strength and try to keep your hope up."

Harry looked like he was going to start yelling again, but Ron spoke again, and he fell silent. "I understand. Please work quickly, Lupin. Thank you." He turned and walked quietly from the room.

Ginny shared a look with Harry and hurriedly followed Ron, leaving the grownups in the kitchen.

He had moved quickly after leaving the room. They finally found him in the back garden, sitting on the fence, staring into the distance. They moved towards him, Harry on his left, Ginny on his right.

"Ron…" Ginny said, hesitantly.

"She's gone," he said, without looking at either of them. "She's gone and being raped and tortured and I can't do anything to help get her back."

"Ron, it isn't your fault." Harry said forcefully.

Ron laughed mirthlessly, soundlessly. "I know that. But it is my fault that I can't do anything to help her!" His voice rose slightly. "If it was me, or you, or Ginny, Hermione would find something to do. She would study and figure out where we were, but I can't do that. She was always the smart one. Not me." His voice dropped to a whisper again. "Not me."

Ginny glanced at Harry again. Ron was clearly taking this the hardest, which was to be expected, but this exceeded her expectations. "Ronald, that attitude isn't going to help Hermione either," she snapped, hoping she could shock him out of his sinkhole. "Do you see us? We miss Hermione just as much as you, but look how we're dealing with it. Harry's furious. He looks like his head is going to explode. Well you do Harry, stop glaring at me like that. And I'm just plain determined to do what I have to to get her back. So I don't mean to be mean, but snap out of it. Hermione's strong. She'll last until we find her. Then we can kick some Death Eater ass and get her back!"

Ron finally looked at her. His eyes, so dead before, were glinting. "Right," he said. "Let's go do something."

Ginny grinned and Harry clapped Ron on the back. "I think we need some work on our curses, don't you?" Ron grinned back.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry this chapter was a bit shorter than originally anticipated, but I did what I could do. I call this chapter "Episodes on Parade". I'll try to refrain from switching viewpoints so rapidly next time, but this chapter was hard to write. I sense unexpected romance in the next chapter. Questions? Comments? Love to hear 'em. **

** Oh, and thank you to all reviewers, particularly to those who gave me spelling corrections. I really do appreciate it. And to PhantomPhanGirl, for the most enthusiastic review I've ever recieved. You get a cookie.**

**Also, I'm looking for a beta reader. I don't know if anyone had any interest in this, but if you do, please reply and let me know. Thank you. **


	4. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer: No, just in case you were wondering, I don't own any part of the Harry Potter universe. This includes, but is not limited to the characters, places, and various magical inventions. The only thing original in this story is the plot line. Or at least most of it, since parts were stolen from the original books. I also made up a few of the places and characters, but that doesn't really matter that much. This disclaimer is just a plea for J.K. Rowling not to sue me anyway.**

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_**Chapter Three**_

_**Resignation and Revelation**_

The days fell into a sort of pattern. Wake up, work, eat, sleep. Hermione settled into the pattern easier than she ever thought she would. The worst part was definitely the simplicity of the tasks Snape put before her, but she made up for it by watching his processes with fascination. The more she watched him, the more her admiration of him grew. No matter what this man was, he was first and foremost his work, and his work was extraordinary.

He allowed her a shower a day, remarking that he wouldn't stand for her to start to smell. Because of this, she also received another set of his modified robes to alternate with the other, this one better fitted to her. She had never realized exactly what it was he wore. Like most students, she hadn't spent a lot of time examining her Potions Master's clothing choices. They turned out to be, much to her secret amusement, a sort of medieval breeches-boots-shirt combination with buttoned black robes over them. When she first examined them, she couldn't help but wonder why he bothered with the breeches and shirt. He wore _robes_ over them, for pities sake.

Contrary to his claim, after the first day of forgetting to stop to eat, he was careful to make her three meals a day. She loved watching him in the kitchen. He always seemed so utterly out of place and so at home at the same time. _But then,_ she reasoned, _cooking is a lot like Potions, only, well, less newt._

Hermione hadn't tried to escape once since she arrived. She hated herself for that, for the utter cowardice that wouldn't let her make a break for it. _What would Harry do? _she asked herself, time and time again. _He wouldn't just sit here making potions for Snape! Neither would Ron!_ But try as she might, she couldn't shake the paralyzing vision of Voldemort handing her to Pettigrew that always seemed to accompany the idea of escape.

For his part, Snape never asked her questions and never volunteered information. He was quiet most of the time, but she noticed (during her observations of him) that he seemed to look less exhausted then he had when she first came here.

Perhaps he was eating more. Every time he made her food, he made a point of eating too. It was as if to tell her that he'd made it for himself and it was a lucky coincidence that she was hungry too.

If she didn't know better, she would almost say Snape was warming up on her. He began to give her slightly more complicated instructions, letting her add more than one ingredient to a potion. He acted like it was nothing more than merely a convenience to him, but when she glanced at him, surprised, he had a hint of a smile in his eyes.

A few days after her arrival, she decided to take a look at the books in her room. With bated breath, she drew one from the shelf, praying that Snape wouldn't have some sort of secret alarm in place. He didn't and it turned out to be well worth the risk. It was _Innovations in Potion Technique_ by Cnidarae Ritter, a book Hermione had scoured the Hogwarts library for and been unable to find. Delighted, she devoured it in a matter of hours, raiding the desk for spare parchment and quill to take notes.

The other books turned out to be equally interesting. Hermione would have gladly stayed awake all night reading, but after _Innovations_ she forced herself to go to sleep. She regulated herself to one book a night, telling herself that she had to sleep if she was going to keep up her energy and escape.

On the eight or ninth day of her capture (she was losing track), Snape woke her earlier than usual. "Wake up Miss Granger, we have more work than usual today."

Obediently, she got out of bed, stretching, pulled her hair back, and followed him to the laboratory. There were already two cauldrons full to the brim with bubbling liquid, unusual for this early. She looked at Snape expectantly, question in her eyes.

He moved quickly to the table on the right and pointed to a large book. Hermione followed, curious to see what they were working on. She'd never been in the loop before.

Glancing up to see if she was watching, Snape gestured to the book. "I would have taken the label off this potion if I thought that would stop you from knowing what it was, but I have no doubt you could conclude it from the ingredients themselves, so I will tolerate no comment from you on the nature of the potion we are making. Now, read the instructions. Be sure you understand them. We will have this to reference from, but this potion is very delicate and I wish you to have an understanding of the process before we begin." He moved away to check something at the other table.

Hermione bent over the book, her eyes scanning the page quickly. What it was made her jaw drop. It was a sort of hybrid potion, mixing a strengthening potion (which increases the force of nearly all a person's abilities for varying lengths of time, depending on the dosage), Veritaserum, and a corrosion draft. What would something like this do to a person? As she read she realized that the entire procedure was written in Snape's spidery neat writing.

Was this his invention? She looked at him over her shoulder. His back was turned as he busied himself with the bubbling cauldron.

She quickly finished reading the directions, which were indeed very long and complicated. Despite her uncertainty of making a potion of unknown effect, Hermione felt thrilled. She thrived on a challenge and making a complex new potion certainly counted.

She rolled up her sleeves and set to work.

To both Hermione and Snape's surprise, their methods fitted together seamlessly. Hermione got in Snape's way only once and, rather than snarl at her—which she would have predicted, given her experiences with him—he pointed out a correction in the way she was slicing toadstools. After that they never crossed paths unfavorably. Every now and then, unable to restrain herself, Hermione timidly crossed to him to ask for an explanation for an instruction or ingredient that seemed unusual. He was always polite, or even kind, when explaining. He always had a reason for his action and had no problem explaining it to her.

They worked all day, both forgetting about food entirely. The room grew hotter as more and more cauldrons were set to bubbling. Potions had to be brewed and combined in pieces and there was always at least one fire going. Loose tendrils of Hermione's hair stuck to her face in damp tendrils and Snape had visible perspiration on his forehead, but neither took any more notice of the heat any more than they did of hunger.

The laboratory had no windows, so it was only the clock in the kitchen occasionally chiming the hour that gave them any indication of the time at all. Neither cared for time either. Hermione had never been happier intellectually. Forgetting the circumstances, she simply worked and was happy. Even when she did things wrong—which happened only twice—her brain was excited and her body engaged. Snape showed the same vigor as he moved about the room, deftly adding ingredients to the various potions and sporadically making corrections to the book.

They finally finished stoppering the neatly labeled potion vials just as the clock chimed distantly to tell them it was eleven o'clock at night (Wizarding clocks were often built to indicate the period of day as well as the time).

Leaning against the table, thoroughly satisfied, Hermione grinned at Snape. Without thinking, he smiled back. "Well done Hermione," he said.

The realization of what he'd said hit them both in the same moment and they froze.

_Hermione,_ she thought, _he called me Hermione. Not just 'Miss Granger'. _She smirked at him. "What, dropping the pleasantries, Professor?"

She had to give him credit for a fast recovery. "Not dropping, merely suspending for the moment. If you are to be my assistant, as it appears you are, I would prefer to be on a first name basis, as irregular as that may seem. I find it helps with discussions." He inwardly winced and kicked himself. His words sounded pathetic, even to his highly biased ears.

"Of course. I take it then that I am permitted to call you…" she trailed off. She was teasing him and she knew it. But after all, he was the one who came up with that ridiculous excuse to cover his slip-up.

"…Severus, if you wish." Snape bit off, unwillingly. Stupid girl. She knew his name and she was winding him up.

A moment of gritted teeth (Snape), increasing amusement (Hermione), and uncomfortable silence (both of them) echoed in the small room. A second later, Hermione, unable to restrain herself, burst out laughing. Snape was surprised and curious, but a bit of a smile returned to his eyes.

"And what, may I ask, is so amusing to you, _Hermione_." He stressed her name, but only enough to prove that saying it didn't make him uncomfortable.

Hermione fought down her laughter. "I'm sorry, its just that, well, you had this look on your face like you were trying to give birth. I don't know. My cousin had a baby girl two years ago and the look on your face was just like…" She scrunched her face up and ground her teeth together really hard, trying and utterly failing to look like either Snape or her baby-girl-having-cousin. She looked at him. His face bordered somewhere between annoyed and concerned for her sanity. "Sorry. I guess it wasn't really that funny…" She trailed off sheepishly.

To her continuing surprise, Snape actually smiled. "I bet you're hungry," he said.

Her stomach growled, as it always seemed to whenever he said that. "Yeah, I guess so," she said, awkwardly, painfully aware of how idiotic she had sounded.

"Come on."

Their kitchen routine was automatic by now. Hermione sat in her chair while Snape busied himself cooking something that smelled absolutely delicious, which turned out to be chicken and sautéed greens. Every day he made good food and every day she found herself repeatedly astounded by his skill in the kitchen.

They shared the meal silently, each eating and avoiding the other's gaze, unsure what had just happened in the laboratory. What Hermione knew for certain was that she wasn't the least bit afraid of Snape anymore. It was a comforting, yet oddly disconcerting thought. Now she had no idea where she stood.

Finished eating, Snape stood abruptly, dropped his plates in the sink with a clang and strode out to the living room and out of Hermione's line of sight. A sudden light flared in the other room: Snape had lit the fire.

She sighed and rubbed a hand across her eyes. Merlin, she was tired. She should go to bed. Instead she stood and brought her empty dishes to the sink as well. Casting around for something to do to avoid going to sleep, she saw that, while Snape had left his dishes, he hadn't set them cleaning themselves as Mrs. Weasley so often did.

Hermione ducked down and peered into the cupboard under the sink. She managed to find about twelve pounds of cobwebs, a cozy mouse in a nest made from napkin, and a very crusty sponge and an old bottle of dish soap. She grinned. This was something she could do with or without a wand. And so she cleaned the kitchen.

Scrubbing the pans, she wondered briefly what Snape thought of all the noise coming from his dilapidated old kitchen. She shrugged. Who cares what he thought? _Not me,_ Hermione told herself.

Done, she stacked the dishes on the counter, unwilling to risk the wrath of any more possible spiders hiding in the cupboards by trying to put them away. Again she looked around for something to do. Her body was tired, but her brain was really awake for the first time in days, nay, months and she wanted to hold onto that feeling before Snape put her back to stirring potions.

She glanced to the doorway separating the kitchen from the sitting room. Did she dare?

Yes she did dare, she decided. She was _not_ afraid of Snape any longer. Hermione squared her shoulders and walked resolutely into the room.

The room was dark, the fire casting huge shadows across the walls of books. Snape sat in the middle of a tired-looking couch facing the flames. He had been staring into the flickering orange light, but looked up when she entered the room. He may have been upset with her presence, but the shifting shadows made it hard to tell from his face.

He gazed at her for a moment and turned back to the fire. "You may sit if you wish," he said, indicating an old armchair to the right of the couch. Her mind struggled for a moment, torn between the desire to have nothing more to do with this man and the desire to stay and delight in the freedom his mind gave hers.

She crossed to the armchair and sat down.

And thus began yet another of their routines.

Hermione thoroughly lost track of how long she had been there. Every day they worked in the potions lab, exploring new ideas of Snape and even occasionally trying out a few of her own, far less ambitious ones. They would eat when their work didn't carry them away, but they were rarely finished before nine o'clock. They would have a late night meal, Hermione would clean up, and then they would sit in the parlor before the fire and talk.

She saved her utter despair for the very late hours of the night in which she actually went to sleep. She wept into the darkness, thinking of Ron, of Harry, of her parents, of her other friends. How could she, she sobbed quietly, how could she do this! How could she happily share a house with the man who had killed Dumbledore? How could she not even attempt to escape? The darker portion of her mind whispered that she didn't actually want to escape. She knew it was true and she hated herself for it. Every night she swore she would change and then every morning she would rise, eager for the days challenge and the joy of conversation with the man who had come to be simply 'Severus'.

They talked about everything under the sun. One night they might spend the entire time discussing the day's work, with all its potential for greatness and failure, possible side effects, what potions would contradict said effects, etc. The next night Snape would manage to get Hermione talking about her experience as the "brains" of Hogwarts. Hermione was always careful to keep out any information that might reveal too much about the Order of the Pheonix, though, as she later realized, Snape probably knew more than she could have ever told him. Indeed, she ended up spending most of the time discussing the beginning of her friendship with Harry and Ron and the difficulty of being in the middle of their occasional fights.

Sometimes Snape sat quietly, staring into the fire absently, though Hermione knew he was listening intently. Sometimes he was an active part of the conversation, debating points or sharing his own input. Though he never talked as much as Hermione did about his own life, her understanding of him grew every day.

One night, several days after they first dropped the formalities and took to their late night discussions, Hermione was feeling particularly depressed. Her despair and homesickness was leaking out into her work and she knew Snape had noticed. Her effort had been sub-par as it had never been before.

Snape sat quietly, watching the fire, waiting for her to speak. They sat in silence for a while, both watching the dancing flames.

Hermione opened her mouth and hesitated, not quite wanting to hear what his answer would be, but needing to ask all the same. "Severus, I'm never going to leave here, am I?"

Silence met her words. Curious, she shifted in the chair to look at him and saw him looking thoughtfully at his hands. "No…" he said, finally. "Neither of us is I'm afraid." He didn't sound sad or angry or bitter. He didn't even sound happy, as she would have imagined his inner Death Eater to be. He just sounded… empty.

As if he sensed her eyes on him, he glanced up at her. His dark eyes were level. If nothing else, Snape was always, and would always be, logical. After a moment, she looked away, unable to meet his gaze anymore. She pulled the cord from her hair. Smoothing it back from the right side of her face, she curled up in the armchair again and heard Snape settle back against the couch.

"Have you lost _all_ hope for redemption?" she murmured, mostly under her breath.

Snape heard her. "Yes." He said simply.

They sat like that for a long time. The room darkened slowly as the fire died down to its glowing embers. She lay, coiled up like a cat, watching the coals until they left small mock-sunspots floating across her vision. The chamber was so quiet she could hear Sanpe breathing, deep breathes that were still too irregular to suggest he was sleeping.

She should leave and go back to her room. Her presence was doubtless making him uncomfortable. Silently, she finger-combed her hair back from her face, wincing at the sensation as her fingertips brushed her only newly healed cut. Feeling it, she was surprised by how prominent it was, even after so long.

**A/N: So I was inspired by a friend to revisit this story after several years. It's strange to come back after the books have all been completed, but I still stand by my right to mess with things as I want! I did edit this chapter significantly. The abruptness of it just didn't feel right.**


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